


The Crabtree Chronicles

by ChibiDawn23



Category: Murdoch Mysteries
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:41:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 19,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24238228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChibiDawn23/pseuds/ChibiDawn23
Summary: The thoughts of Constable Crabtree, throughout the years. Short snippets and drabbles from various episodes. Ongoing for as long as the plot bunny in the custodian's helmet dictates. Inner musings, extended scenes, all centered around my favorite constable from the Toronto Constabulary.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 13





	1. The Sting of Betrayal

**Author's Note:**

> Ch 1: Inner thoughts from "Hell to Pay," 10x18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George chose to take the law into his own hands once before. It didn't turn out well. Now, Murdoch gives him a taste of his own medicine almost a year later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inner thoughts from "Hell to Pay," 10x18

Someone had called it in to Station 4-reports of strange lights and noise coming from inside City Records. George was out the alley door in an instant, practically sprinting as Gus Jackson and Henry Higgins struggled to keep up with him. _It's him. It's got be._

_I need it to be him_.

He could see it as they stepped into the front offices-a light, playing around in the stacks in the back. George held up a finger to his lips, urging his fellow constables to move quietly. He reached out a gloved hand, his fingers shaking underneath the leather. _What if it is him? What do I do?_ George grabbed the doorknob, gave it a turn to the right. It didn't budge. He played his flashlight on the knob, noting the lock was engaged. He turned back to Jackson and Higgins. _This is it_.

George flicked the lock and threw the door open.

His eyes widened. "Sir," he breathed, not bothering to hide the relief in his voice.

William Murdoch staggered back from the desk, fear in his eyes. It was an expression George had only seen on his face a handful of times in the ten years he'd been working with Detective Murdoch, and quite frankly, it scared the hell out of _him._ "George," Murdoch said cautiously.

George's heart sank. _He doesn't trust us. Not that I blame him, truth be told._ "You're not supposed to be in here, sir," George admonished quietly.

His superior gestured to the exit. "I can leave," he said. It would've been humorous, had the situation not been so dire. The detective really was quite funny when the situation called for it.

He took a step farther into the room, Higgins and Jackson blocking the door behind him. Neither of them had spoken a word, letting George take the lead. "I can't let you do that." It unnerved George to speak to him like that.

Murdoch held up his hands, his eyes pleading. "George, no."

George didn't know whether to empathize with him, or be furious with him. "Sir, it's for the best," he reasoned with him.

"I can't." The detective sounded exhausted.

_Considering he's been on the run, that makes sense. And no doubt not sleeping, nor shaving, judging by his face. I have to make him understand._ "Sir, you're wanted for _murder_ ," George pointed out.

Murdoch's eyes bored into George's. "You don't really believe that to be true?"

The fact that he has asked the question made George all the more annoyed, and felt like a betrayal, after-after... _After ten years together, after everything we've been through?_ _How can you even_ ask _me that?_ "No!" George said, a little stronger than he'd meant to. "Of course not," he said, tempering his voice. "But come in with us-" Murdoch opened his mouth to protest and George pushed ahead hurriedly. "-We'll work _together_ , we'll clear your name!" _Just like it's always been done. It's better if we work together!_

The detective shook his head. "You won't be able to. I won't be able to-not behind bars." The detective was being surprisingly rational, and it was frustrating George. _Why can't you trust us right now?_ he wanted to burst out. _Does our friendship, does that mean nothing to you?_ He knew it was an irrational thought, but it was too late now.

George came around the desk. He looked his superior in the eye. "Sir…I can't let you leave," he told him.

"George, _please_ ," Murdoch begged. "Tell Julia that you saw me, and that I'm fine."

George held his gaze. He wrestled with the idea. _The detective can take care of himself, can't he? And perhaps he's right; any manner of things could happen to him behind bars._ A nagging voice reminded him, _But at least at the station you can post a guard. You, or Watts, or Higgins, or Jackson, or hell, the Inspector himself could camp outside the cell door_!

George's mind was made up.

"You can tell her yourself." He glanced back at Higgins and Jackson, who had remained silent through the whole exchange. Perhaps they'd thought that George's friendship with the detective would make him see reason. _In that respect, I've failed_ , George noted miserably. "Lads," he added, motioning Higgins and Jackson forward. His order seemed to surprise them, and make them hesitate, and that instant was all Murdoch needed.

"I'm sorry, George."

George never saw the punch coming. One moment, he was on his feet, the next, he was on the floor, the right side of his face stinging, and he saw stars in the dark room. He landed on his hands and knees on the floorboards. _He hit me? Holy mother of Mary, he_ hit _me!_

Higgins was pulling him to his feet. "George! Are you all right, George?"

George pushed his hands away, and looked up as Jackson came back through the open door. "Where is he?" he demanded, rubbing his jaw. "Where _is_ he?!" He didn't bother to hide the panic in his voice.

"He got away," Jackson said breathlessly.

A plethora of words came to George's mind, but only two of them came out. "Damn it!" he growled, his frustration, and his anger and the sheer feeling of helplessness exploding out in those two words. "We're supposed to bring him in!"

Higgins looked at him in alarm. "George-"

_You don't understand. He doesn't understand!_ "Higgins, he's safer with us than without us!" George exploded. _I can't protect him out there. At least I had a chance if he'd be back at the station house!_

He closed his eyes in frustration. _Damn it, Detective Murdoch, I can't help you if you don't trust me!_

That knowledge stung worse than the punch had.


	2. Victory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> George's thoughts on his promotion, "CrabtreeMania," 08x16

George was in particularly high spirits this morning as he walked from his boarding house to Station House 4. He nodded politely to the ladies at the hat shop, whistled a jaunty tune as he nodded to McNabb and Worsely as they passed him coming off the night shift. _Last night_ , he thought, with a grin. _Last night was incredible._

_Cracking The Cossack over the head with the chair, the audience erupting into cheers and applause. Edna, meeting him in the center of the ring, kissing him soundly. Her small shriek of surprise when he'd lifted her off the mat and onto his shoulders, parading around in victory. And the smile on Simon's face as he'd asked for his autograph._

Oh, if someone could bottle that feeling, they could make _millions_! George was still smiling as he walked into Station House 4, helmet under his arm. He didn't recall ever feeling so elated-not even when _Curse of the_ _Pharaohs_ had been published.

Inspector Brackenreid and Detective Murdoch were standing just inside the bullpen, near his desk. His smile faded, only slightly. He'd forgotten the reason he was there. They'd called him, asked him to come in early that morning. He didn't know why. That made him a little nervous. But he refused to let it get him down.

"Sirs. You called for me?" George announced himself to the backs of his superiors.

Inspector Brackenreid turned around. "Ah, Crabtree," he greeted him, stepping away from Murdoch to clear a path for George to stand inbetween them. He looked over George's head at Murdoch, who gave a slight nod. _What's going on?_ "We wanted to compliment you on a fine piece of work," Brackenreid told George.

The giddy feeling returned and George felt his ears turning pink. The Inspector didn't hand out compliments lightly. "Even if your diligence _did_ uncover that the sport of wrestling is a sham," the Inspector continued.

George chuckled, embarrassed. _That's the Inspector for you, he gives and then he takes._

"Yes, I doubt fans will continue to follow it so feverishly once the truth reaches them," Murdoch added. George started to feel a little warm under his uniform. Butterflies were invading. He thought he'd done well on the Randolph case, but had he forgotten something? Was there something he'd forgotten to-to… _Oh God._

"Nevertheless," Brackenreid went on, "I think it's about time you got measured for a new suit."

George looked at him, unsure if he'd heard him correctly. _New suit? What?_ "Sir?" He had no idea where this was going, his fingers running absently over the lip of his helmet. _Does he mean like a regular suit? Am I getting fired?_

"Yes, George." Murdoch said with a smile of his own. "You've been serving in a constable's tunic long enough."

 _A constable's tunic long enough._ George looked between the two of them. _Did he just-_ "Sirs, I-" _Does that mean what I think it does?_

"Don't be thick, buggerlugs." There was a hint of the Inspector's usual annoyance with him in his voice. He nodded to George. "There's an opening at Station House 3 for a new detective. I've put you forward."

George's heart pounded. Had he really heard that correctly? _Detective_?! He opened his mouth to say something, to ask a question, but nothing came out. He caught Detective Murdoch's amused smile.

"They'd be lucky to have you, George." Murdoch clapped him on the shoulder. George's two superiors nodded to him, then left for their respective offices, leaving George still standing, stunned.

 _Detective! The one thing I've wanted since I came back to Toronto. The opportunity to be on equal footing with Detective Murdoch-no, never equal, but at least with the same rank. A-a dream come true, one that I've worked my whole life toward-well, maybe not my_ whole _life, there was that stint where I wanted to be a pirate-_

George somehow found his chair without missing it and sat down. _New detective. They'd be lucky to have you, George._ The words ran over and over his mind. He ran a hand over his face, feeling the grin that hadn't quite gone away, nor was he sure that it ever would.

_Detective George Crabtree._

He glanced around to see if anyone was watching, and pumped his fist.

_Detective George Crabtree, Toronto Constabulary._

He'd thought nothing could match that feeling of victory from the night before. He was wrong.


	3. All Through the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when George's 'zombie army' theory is affirmed? Is it an "I told you so" moment, or does it turn into more of an awful wish fulfillment, and what's his response when it puts Dr. Emily Grace in danger?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extended Scene from "Murdoch of the Living Dead," 07x05

George hated being right.

 _This is madness!_ Whatever Inspector Brackenreid said, "zombie army" or no, it was…this was…a terrifying night of the _dead_. _Of the living dead!_ George's mind raced. He skidded to a halt in the middle of the street, eyes widening at the chaos unfolding around him. Behind him, the rest of Station House 4 came to a stop, a murmur rippling through the constables as they surveyed the scene. A large, burly man in pale grey shirt and pants, indicative of an inmate at the Don Jail, was rocking a wagon back and forth, as a screaming couple were being helped from the back by the driver. The horse reared in terror.

For a moment, time froze, and no one moved, too in shock at the events unfolding around them. George felt like Jeremiah Fuller, as if he was removed from the scene, unable to think. A scream ripped through the air, and George blinked, coming back instantly to himself. _Screw your courage, George Crabtree_ , he ordered himself, and then, "Steady on, lads!" he yelled, giving the command, and a sea of uniforms spread out into the chaos.

Two constables were looping the dogcatcher's pole around the head and shoulders of another man, who was gnawing, George noted in horror, on a leg of lamb hanging in a broken butcher shop window. _These men, they appear to be almost…inhuman. What did Bates do to them? He's turned them into-into, well, I don't care what the Inspector says, he's turned them into zombies! Perhaps not in the traditional sense, but zombies nonetheless!_

A screaming woman blew by George, nearly knocking him off his feet. He turned to try to help her, but she was long gone, rushing down a side street into the arms of Lutz, who quickly ushered her into the livery and out of harm's way.

He caught a glimpse of Jackson and McNabb sneaking up on another one further up the street, fisherman's net strung between them, and then heard a shout. _I know that voice…_ George sprinted past an overturned fruit stand to see Higgins backed up against a wall, with a man's hands around his neck. George grabbed the inmate by the shoulders and yanked him backwards. Higgins slid out from under him and George pushed him face-first against the wall so Higgins could handcuff his hands behind his back. The two of them looked at each other, breathing heavily, as if to say, _What in the hell is happening?_

"Well done, lads!" The Inspector came darting across the street. "Higgins, take him to the cells," he ordered the constable. George couldn't help but stare at the inmate as Higgins dragged him off. His eyes were lifeless, face expressionless, and all he could do was moan. _Dear Lord that's terrifying_ , he thought.

"Sir!" A strangled, garbled voice made George and the Inspector turn, and George gasped at Detective Murdoch, stumbling toward the two of them. Inspector Brackenreid gripped the detective by the arm.

"You all right, Murdoch?"

George gaped. His superior looked…well, he looked _terrible_. "Sir, you're very pale," George noted in concern.

Murdoch swallowed hard and shook his head. 'I'm fine, George."

 _No, sir_ , George wanted to tell him. _You look like Death!_ Inwardly, he cringed. _Perhaps not the best simile at the moment._

The Inspector put a hand on Murdoch's chest. "Nonsense. Get yourself back to the station house. We can handle things out here."

"But-"

"We've got every man available in the streets," the Inspector countered. He motioned at George. "Crabtree, with me." George nodded, glancing back at Murdoch as he ran, hoping his friend was all right. As he and the Inspector made their way back into the chaos, George startled in shock at the sound of another unearthly growling coming from the alley on his left. _That's the direction of the city morgue_! "Sir," he told the Inspector, "I'll be right back!" He spun on his heel and took off, hearing his superior barking at him to turn back around. George ran full out, heart pounding, as he turned the corner to see Dr. Emily Grace in the grip of a great hulk of a man, backed against the morgue doors. _Dear God. Emily_! Without thinking, George flew at the man, tackling him to the cobbled streets. He wrestled the man to the ground, digging a knee into his back, and turned to look up at Dr. Grace. "Emily, are you hurt?" he demanded, pressing harder against the wriggling man underneath him.

She shook her head, visibly confused. "I'm fine, but I'm afraid he may not be," she said, nodding to his left hand, where, George noted, her hatpin had run him through.

Two constables came running, and George got awkwardly to his feet as they hauled the inmate up by the armpits, dragging him away. "Take him in, lads," George ground out. He brushed himself off, then returned his gaze to Emily. The doctor seemed all right, physically. "I'll make sure the lady gets home safely," he added, offering her his arm. It took her a moment to take it, and he noted her hands were shaking. He'd never seen her quite this rattled. _If I ever get my hands on Dr. Bates..._

"There…there really was a zombie army, George. You were right," she whispered as they walked.

 _I know. I didn't want to be_. "That's nice of you to say," he admitted. A shiver rippled through her, and George paused in the street. "Are you cold?" he asked. He hadn't noted the temperature, warm from the adrenaline and the work from the night. It _was_ a little chilly.

Emily shook her head. "No," she said, wringing her hands together. "I-I was just thinking…that man…" There was a tremble in her voice, and George gently took both of her hands, wrapping them in his own.

"It's all right, Emily," he promised her quietly. "I'm here now."

The doctor bit her lip as she looked up at him from under the brim of her hat. "Perhaps you…might not be elsewhere tonight?" she requested of him, her voice shaking. "I-If I may be so bothersome?"

George squeezed her fingers. "You'd only be bothersome if you kept me away," he assured her, threading her arm through his and pulling her close. _I've got you, Emily Grace. If something had happened to you...well, I won't let anything happen to you._

He didn't let go of her arm until they were safely at her door, and when she ushered him in, George gallantly closed the door behind them and sat against it, listening through the night until the sounds of the chaos outside faded away sometime around midnight. He checked on Emily, who had fallen asleep fully clothed on her bed, and only when he was certain she was safe and soundly sleeping, did he go to bed himself, still leaning against her door. He'd be sore in the morning, but it would be worth it. Nothing was going to happen to her again, not tonight. He had a promise to keep.


	4. The World is Upside Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George Crabtree is a pretty level-headed man. Until you jeopardize the people he cares about. Confronted by Robert Graham, will George say something he regrets? Or will a cooler head prevail?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inner thoughts from "Hell to Pay," 10x18

He took a moment, just to look at her. _Miss Bloom_ , he thought, watching her attempt to wrangle the curls he used to love running his fingers through, tucking behind her ear. George didn't know how he'd ended up at the Star Room; after everything the past few days, he was exhausted, and he thought his feet might have a mind of their own.

They must have. He found himself walking across the room, coming to a stop behind her. Nina's brown eyes caught his own in the mirror. Lydia's death and the events of the past days had taken their toll on the dancer-George could see a clever hand trying to hide it with rouge and blush, but her eyes…her eyes themselves matched his. Tired. Worried.

"I don't know anything. I told the detective and his wife all that I know." Nina sounded absolutely drained. "I can't help you." She continued brushing her hair, her eyes never leaving his in the mirror. "I would if I could."

George knew it. He knew how much Lydia meant to Nina. She knew how much Detective Murdoch meant to him. Though their own relationship was strained…Nina was fiercely loyal to those she loved. She would tell him if she knew anything.

He told her so. "I know," he whispered, unsure if he could trust his own voice at the moment. He sounded years older than he actually was.

The look she shot him was plain. _Then what are you doing here, George Crabtree?_ "I think…I just wanted to see you," he admitted quietly. He hadn't seen her…not since the letter had arrived at the station. Not since she'd told him he deserved better than her. He wanted to ask her, couldn't count the number of times he'd wanted to come down and demand to know why she'd sent that letter. _Now's not the time, George_.

Her voice held a note of bitterness. "Well. Here I am," she said, setting the brush down, standing. She crossed her arms over her chest self-consciously- _and there was something Nina Bloom never was._ George closed his eyes, half in frustration, half in exhaustion. What he wouldn't give to take her in his arms right this second and fall asleep with her, if only to forget this insanity for a few precious moments.

"I'm so sorry. I never should have let you go," he burst out.

To his shock, Nina broke eye contact, and looked down at her feet. "You deserve better than me," she told him flatly.

It broke his heart. He didn't know what happened to the fiery burlesque dancer, the one who didn't care what people thought of her, who prided herself on not being what people expected. _The world truly has turned upside down_. _This mistake is mine. I don't know what I did, but I need to rectify it. E_ _verything I care about has been turned on its' head. If this is the only chance I get to take, then_ …

George gently tilted her chin so she was looking at him. Her eyes were wet with tears. "I'm only realizing now," he said sincerely, "that there _is_ no better than you."

_Whatever happens, I've said my piece now_ , he thought. _Whatever happens…_ Fatigue overwhelmed him, and Nina drew him into a hug, their roles now reversed. "But I don't know what to do," he said, his voice breaking. "With the detective, and Doctor Ogden gone-"

She hugged him harder. _God, I've missed this_ , George couldn't help but think, and unashamedly let her hold him. "You'll find them," Nina reassured him. "It's gonna be all right."

_I don't know if anything will be all right, ever again_ , George wanted to tell her. He closed his eyes, resting his chin on the top of her head, stealing a few precious moments of normalcy.

"That's so touching."

The voice made the hair on the back of George's neck stand up, and he looked over Nina's head sharply to see Robert Graham come in, one of his lackeys behind him. His heart raced, every nerve in his body telling him to get the hell out of the room.

But he stood his ground. George moved Nina behind him, glared at Graham. "Get out of here." His voice dripped venom.

Graham was undeterred, moving closer to the two of them. "I would've thought you'd be out looking."

_Absolutely. As soon as I know you're not having me followed again_ , George thought irritably.

"Or," Graham continued, "is it that you'd rather spend time with painted ladies-" here the developer's gaze turned to Nina, making George bristle, "-than look for your detective or his missing wife?"

George took a step forward, standing toe to toe with Graham. _You don't scare me._ "I said, get _out_." There was a note of a threat in his tone. _He comes anywhere near Nina, badge be damned, he will get what he deserves._

Graham seemed to enjoy toying with him. "Strike me, and you'll end up in a cell, where you'll be even more useless than you currently are. But Constable, think about this. You are at a crossroads in your life. If you help me, you will have an unimpeded rise to the top. Your inspector's gone, your immediate superior is a murderer-"

George's eyes narrowed. He felt his fingers curling into a fist. _Lying bastard._

"Things are looking up for Constable George Crabtree," Graham continued. "And all you have to do is look away."

George held his gaze. "I won't be doing that." _I'll not look away until you're at the end of a noose, or in a cell._

"Sounds to me like you wish to add another item to your long list of mistakes." Graham sounded mildly disappointed.

George held his gaze. _As if he actually thought I would do such a thing. It didn't work with Chief Constable Davis, and it sure as hell won't for you! I won't be bribed, nor intimidated, not by the likes of you. And if it is ever possible for me to atone for those 'mistakes' as you call them, and advance further than constable third class, it will be on_ my _merit and not on your shoulders!_

He said nothing, refusing to give Graham any satisfaction.

Graham turned his eyes to Nina again, giving her a long glance. George felt her squeeze his arm. "Enjoy your time with your _whore_ ," Graham tossed out as a parting shot.

George's feet did their own again, propelling him forward. His arm drew back, fingernails digging into his palm. _Right now. For Lydia Hall, for Detective Murdoch and Dr. Ogden. You son of a-_

"George, no." Nina's voice broke through the red haze in his vision, the blood pounding in his ears. His fingers loosened, just a little, as he watched Graham turn to go. Nina's voice was icy. "Don't worry, George," she said, loud enough for Graham to hear. "Nothing he says will bother me." It was a thinly veiled suggestion, George was sure, to calm down before he had an aneurysm, or did something he would regret. _Except I don't think I would_.

Graham gave him a smirk as he exited. He'd gotten under George's skin, and he knew it. Only when he left the room did George finally calm, feeling the muscles in his legs and arms relax. His heart still pounded in his ears.

Nina stepped out from behind him, threaded her arms around his waist. "The way you just stood up to him makes me so _proud_ of you."

He couldn't accept the compliment. He sure didn't feel proud of his actions. _I'm done lying down for him, for Davis. Next time, the only way he's getting out of the room is an eight-foot drop._


	5. A Matter of Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It is a man's honor to fight for those he loves." Who'd have thought those words would come back to haunt George almost a year later?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene(s) from "Kung Fu Crabtree" 07x16, and "Nolo Contendre," 09x01

George lay in his bed, staring up at his ceiling, the events of the past two days weighing on his mind. It was impossible to sleep. He'd been lying in bed for hours, but unable to turn out the light and close his eyes.

_It is a man's honor to fight for those he loves_.

He couldn't get the word out of his head. _Honor_.

Wu Chang was sitting in the cells at Station House 4 right now, awaiting trial for murdering a man. Except he hadn't committed the crime. His sister, Ling, had. But Wu had confessed to it. And the evidence linking his sister to the crime was circumstantial at best.

George was dumbfounded. Wu was willing to take the punishment for his sister. To face either the noose in Toronto or…or death by 1000 cuts? What kind of justice system did they _have_ in China? _That_ would never fly in Canada!

_Be happy for me, my friend. This is for the best._

If anything, George was thoroughly confused. Was this _really_ for the best? Yes, Wu Chang had killed a man in China, a revenge killing for the death of their father. Yes, George supposed, if he had a sister (and maybe he did, somewhere, he didn't know!), he would do anything to protect her. Including take the fall for a murder.

_Happiness is fleeting, but honor is immortal_.

Wu Chang had told him it was honorable to fight for those you loved. He'd meant it in the romantic sense, he thought, at least at the time. But now, George was starting to see the true meaning. That you did what was right in your heart for those you care about. That you'd do whatever it took to keep them from harm. Even if that meant sacrificing your own happiness…or your own life.

_You are a man of honor, Constable Crabtree,_ Wu Chang had informed him. _Would he do the same, if he was in Wu Chang's place?_

It was that thought that kept him awake until nearly dawn.

* * *

_One year later_ …

George pushed open the door of Edna Brooks's door and froze in his tracks. Edna stood behind the kitchen table, the gun – _the gun that I bought for her_ -in her shaking hands.

_It is a man's honor to fight for those he loves._ The words came rushing back to him, unbidden from somewhere deep in his subconscious. _Would you do the same?_

He made his decision.

Gently, he put his hands over hers. "The police are going to be here soon. When they see…" He nodded to the body of her husband. "When they see..this…they're going to want to question you. You need to go. Now." He scribbled down something on the back of an envelope on the table. "You'll be safe here. Don't try to contact me. Take Simon, and go." He gave her a slight shove toward the door.

Then, he looked down at the revolver that was now in his hands. Pulling his handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped the gun clean. And waited.

_Happiness is fleeting…but honor is immortal._

He closed his eyes. It _would be nice to have both._


	6. Good Boy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George grinned down at the dog. "I have an idea, and you're going to play along."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extended Scene/Inner thoughts from "A Murdog Mystery," 10x11

**Good Boy, "A Murdog Mystery" 10x11**

George had always looked up to Detective Murdoch. He admired his confidence. His attention to detail, and his creativity and ingenuity. The detective never spoke to him like he was beneath him in rank, but always like they were on equal footing.

But this…this was just _unacceptable_ behavior. In ten years, George had never seen anything so appalling from Detective William Murdoch.

What kind of a man didn't like _dogs_?!

George patted Pistachio on the head. George had wrapped the leash around the arm of his chair, but surprisingly, the retriever hadn't moved, instead waiting patiently by his side. _Good girl_ , he smiled. "How can the Detective not love a good dog like you?" he praised Pistachio quietly. The dog's tongue lolled out and big, bright eyes stared up at the constable.

George loved dogs. As a child in Newfoundland, he'd wanted one so badly that he'd resorted to having an imaginary one (Aunt Petunia was allergic, as was the reverend). He used to run up and down the cliffsides, Roger (a big, fluffy St. John's water dog) by his side. Roger slept under his bed at the rectory. Aunt Nettle had a couple of _real_ dogs on the farm in Haileybury when George had lived with her for a time before coming to Toronto, and the happiest moments of his life had been running around outside on her property with her big golden retriever ( _King_ , he recalled fondly, _so named because Aunt Nettle thought he looked regal when he sat in front of the barn doors_ ), nipping at his heels.

He thought about Violet. Violet had been a wonderful dog, always greeting him at the door of his boarding house before Mrs. Keening had changed the policy to no pets allowed. George had kept her for nearly five years after taking over her care from Edna. It had been so devastating to lose her that he'd asked for time off to grieve. He'd given Violet to the Toronto Humane Society, and had checked in nearly every day on his rounds until he'd been informed that Violet had gone to a good home.

Dogs were wonderful. They were 'man's best friend' for a _reason_ , George thought to himself. The clock on the wall showed it was nearly time to clock out for the day. He looked at Pistachio. Pistachio looked up at him, a big smile on her face.

George leaned back in his chair, a plan forming. He grinned down at the dog. "I have an idea, and you're going to play along," he told her. He got up, unwound the leash from the arm of his chair, and walked Pistachio back to the interview room, where Detective Murdoch was just coming out after talking to Miss Newsome. "Sir. How did it go?"

Murdoch looked perplexed. "There were no traces of blood on the grooming scissors."

"So…Ruth Newsome's scissors were not the murder weapon?"

"Not unless she did a very good job of cleaning them," Murdoch said.

 _Henry'll be pleased to hear that_ , George thought mischievously. He waited while the detective spoke to Detective Watts. Pistachio sat attentively next to him. He winked at the dog. _It's almost our turn_.

Watts walked away, and George seized the moment. "Sir. I'm, ah, wondering what to do with Pistachio now that her owner is dead." Pistachio perked at her name.

Murdoch eyed her warily. "Can't her handler take her?"

"I understand Mr. DuBois is still recovering from his recent poisoning," George explained.

"Right. Then…perhaps she could stay with you for the night?"

"Oh, sir, I would love to," George began, injecting a hint of sadness into his voice, "but my landlady no longer allows animals."

The detective was starting to look annoyed, or desperate, George couldn't tell which. "Well then, I'm sure one of the other owners can keep her until Mr. DuBois can reclaim her."

George looked aghast. "Sir, one of the other owners is likely the _poisoner_. We can hardly take _that_ chance!"

"Right." George waited, watching the detective mull it over. He eyed George, who maintained a neutral expression. "What are you suggesting?" Murdoch asked him finally.

"Well…." George drew the word out into a couple of syllables. "I believe _your_ hotel allows, pets, sir?" he suggested innocently.

Murdoch shook his head, looking offended by the insinuation. " _They_ may." George wondered just what it was the detective had against _they_. _They_ seemed to come up a lot in recent conversation lately. " _I_ do not," he continued, and it was all George could do not to burst out with, _For God's sake, man, what do you have against dogs?!_

George sighed, maybe a little overexaggerated. "Oh. All right…I suppose…suppose I'll stay here with her."

"Here?"

George nodded. "I'll bunk down in one of the cells, I suppose," he suggested, patting Pistachio on the head.

Murdoch studied him, trying to decide, George supposed, if he was indeed serious about this. "Very well," he said slowly.

George pivoted, the dog instantly at his heel. He took a few steps toward the cells, then turned back to the detective. "I won't get much sleep tonight sir," he said carefully. "I may not be at my best tomorrow," he added, injecting just a _hint_ of a whine into his voice. His younger self would be so proud of him.

As if picking up on his (albeit false) tone, Pistachio lay down on all fours on the floor, looked up at Murdoch, and whined sadly.

George shot the dog a sympathetic smile, then turned to leave.

"George."

It was all he could do to hide his smile. He handed the leash over to the detective, feigning an "I'm so appreciative of this, you won't regret it," grateful expression, and then pressed his fist to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud as Murdoch awkwardly walked Pistachio out of the station.

George whistled a tune as he walked over to his desk to pick up his helmet. _You just wait. One night with you, Pistachio, and_ you'll _have the_ Detective _trained to love you!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Nerd alert :) I actually felt the need to go research Newfoundland dogs for this chapter. George calling "Roger" a St. John's water dog might not be too far off the mark, as Newfoundlands are native to the island and are descended from an indigenous dog known as the St. John's dog. And apparently they're great swimmers. Also, Newfies (the dog) are known to be very loyal and good working dogs...traits they share with our favorite Newfoundland-born constable!


	7. The Right Answer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davis demands George give him the 'right' answer. Except Davis's version of 'right' and George Crabtree's are vastly different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing/Extended scene from 10x18 "Hell to Pay"  
> Note: Chronologically, this takes place prior to "The World is Upside Down"

"Get out."

George started a little at the brusque command from Constable Davis. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Winton hesitate, just a little longer, looking at George out of the corner of his eye. George gave him an almost imperceptible nod. _Go on. I can handle this_. _I'm the one who got caught in the first place_ , he thought miserably.

He heard the cell door creak open and close, felt the bunk sag a bit with Davis's extra weight. George held his chin in his hands, refusing to look Davis in the eye.

"First, let me say I understand the chain of command," Davis began. "I understand loyalty to a superior officer."

 _You really don't, I don't think, sir_. _If that were the case, I wouldn't be sitting here._

" And most importantly," Davis almost sounded like he believed what he was saying. But George knew him better. Davis was a remarkable liar. "I understand loyalty to a friend."

 _Friend_.The word made George cringe. He'd gotten punched in the face by said 'friend' only the night before. _But I'm still his friend. I understand why he did it._ Frustratingly, his mind pointed out, _But you can't do much for your friend sitting here, can you, George?_

" Your Detective Murdoch is a lucky man."

George stared at the floor. "I don't see much lucky about his situation." _The situation you and Graham have put him in. It should be_ you _sitting in here._

"Ah, well, he put himself there," Davis said indifferently.

"I highly doubt that," George said darkly. Copping an attitude with Davis was perhaps not the best decision, but words were all he had to fight back with at the moment.

"Well, I'm not interested in your opinion," Davis informed him.

George kept his eyes on the floor. _More's the pity. I'd like to give it to you with some physical punctuation._ Detective Murdoch's voice filtered into his thoughts. _You won't be able to help behind bars_... _and here you are_...

 _With all due respect, Sir, bite your tongue_. He didn't like his words being thrown back at him like that.

Davis continued, "What you need to be concerned with is your record." George tensed. _Yet another part of my life I'm not thrilled with_. He'd spent five months in the Don Jail, been demoted to constable third class. All because of a heat of the moment decision that had blown up in his face. A mistake that he'd spent the better part of two years trying to make up for. The way Detective Murdoch had looked at him in the interview room that night…he _never_ wanted to be on the receiving end of that look _ever_ again.

Davis, oblivious to the agony in his thoughts, continued to pile on the feeling of shame and embarrassment. "You have spent time in jail. Your career is limited as it is. If you don't cooperate with me, your career is over."

 _Cooperate with you. You_ must _be joking._ George couldn't sit there any longer, bolting up from the cot and moving to lean against the bars, still refusing to look Davis in the face. _I won't give him the satisfaction._

"I don't give a damn." He didn't, either. If this was the end of Constable George Crabtree, all the better. At least he'd be dismissed protecting his friends. Doing the right thing. Upholding and defending the law. All the reasons he'd become a constable in the first place.

He heard the bunk creak as Davis stood. "Well I do. And I want answers!"

George never saw it coming. For the second time in less than 24 hours, he found himself on the receiving end of a punch from a superior officer. _Not a superior officer_ , he thought as Davis send him reeling into the cell bars. He grabbed them to stay upright. _Just a higher-ranking one_. Davis flipped him around and shoved his forearm under his chin, forcing George's face up so he had no choice but to look at him.

"I know you two have been staying in contact," Davis hissed at him. "And I want you to _bring him in_."

George swallowed hard, a tough move with the arm pressing against his windpipe. He shook his head, his eyes boring into Davis's. "I won't do it."

Davis dropped his arm and George took a quick breath as Davis grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into the cell bars. George's head cracked against one of them and he saw stars. _Go on, Davis_ , he thought in a haze. _Nothing you can do is going to turn me against my best friend._

"Answer me!" Davis roared in his face. "Give me the _right_ answer!"

George was about to tell him what his right _answer_ was when Davis's grip loosened suddenly and George slipped out of Davis's grip. Dizzily, he ducked out of the way as Inspector Brackenreid hauled Davis off of him. "Get off him, Davis!"

"Back off!" Davis ordered the Inspector. George stumbled out into the hall, holding the back of his head gingerly.

Brackenreid glared daggers at Davis. "Stay away from my man," Brackenreid barked. It felt good to hear him say that, George had to admit. He felt a little better, at least.

"I'm your superior," Davis reminded him.

Brackenreid shook his head. "I don't give a toss. Crabtree, get out. _Now_!"

That was one order George was more than happy to follow. He staggered out into the bullpen. Higgins- _bless you, Higgins_ \- spotted him and was by his side instantly. "Jackson! Ice!" Higgins ordered the bigger constable. He helped George to his desk chair and sat him down. "Jesus, George, are you all right? What happened?"

George shook his head. The movement hurt. He relayed the conversation to Henry, whose face darkened. "Bastard," Higgins hissed under his breath. Jackson returned with an ice pack and George held it gingerly to the knot on the back of his head as Higgins explained what had happened to Jackson. Gus Jackson swore. "As if he thought he'd turn you. Nobody's a better friend to the Detective than you, George," Jackson said adamantly.

George gave him a thin smile. "He's not the only good friend," he said quietly. "Thanks, lads."

Higgins nodded. "We've got your back." The three of them looked up as Inspector Brackenreid stormed into the main offices from the cell block, snapping his fingers at George to follow him into his office. George got up carefully and walked into his office. Brackenreid closed both doors and then looked at his constable. "You all right, Crabtree?"

George nodded. "Gettin' a little tired of being hit, sir," he admitted.

"What did Davis want with you?"

George repeated the conversation again, the tension returning to his shoulders and making his head throb. "He wanted me to give him the right answer," he explained. "That I would go arrest Detective Murdoch and bring him in, that he'd try to move me up in the ranks." Brackenreid muttered a few choice words under his breath. "I told him I wouldn't do it," George said. "I'd turn in my badge tonight for one chance to exonerate Detective Murdoch, sir!"

Brackenreid placed a hand on his shoulder. "That _was_ the right answer, Bugalugs," he assured his man. There was a note of pride in his tone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, that *was* a "Down Periscope" reference if you spotted it.


	8. Ambush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George comes to a horrifying revelation at the church on Yonge and Heath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inner thoughts from "Hell to Pay," 10x18

He's been unsettled since leaving the Star Room.

The pain from the lump on the back of his head has subsided, but is still there, a dull, aching reminder of his run-in with Davis and the cell bars. The back of his helmet is rubbing against it, giving him a constant reminder of it just when he thinks it's going to go away.

But there's something else. Something else in the back of his mind, as he, Higgins, and Jackson make their way at a clipped pace to the church on Yonge and Heath.

"You didn't see who left the note?" he asks Higgins as they jog up the steps. Perhaps it's because he's with his friends, or perhaps the pain from his head is dulling his senses, but he doesn't feel the need to conceal their movements. So what if Graham's goons follow them here? There's six fists and almost 30 years of experience between the three of them; surely they can handle whatever comes to pass. He'll do whatever it takes to protect Detective Murdoch, he's made that promise to himself more than once in the past 48 hours, and he knows Higgins and Jackson will do the same.

"No, why?" Higgins sounds annoyed. It's not the first time he's been questioned about the square piece of paper that had been tacked to the bulletin board just inside the front doors. There had been three words printed on it. _Crabtree. Church. 11 p.m._

Higgins had immediately relayed the message to George, and the wheels had started to turn.

"It's from Detective Murdoch," George tells them in a low whisper. He misses the look exchanged between Higgins and Jackson.

"What's it say?" Jackson questions him.

"He needs our help."

And there it was. Say no more. Jackson nods determinedly, and the three of them move into the cavernous sanctuary. The sound of their boots echoes off the tile floor. Candles are lit near the altar, but they are the only light. The place was eerie the night before, when he met the detective, but now, a place where he should feel safe instead feels downright ominous.

It's the darkness that will save his life later tonight.

George holds up a hand and the three of them stop in the center of the aisle. George's eyes flicker from side to side, watching for Detective Murdoch to materialize out of the shadows on either side of the pews.

"You sure this is the place?" Higgins asks, his voice like a foghorn in the quiet.

"This is where we met last time," George says. His fingers clench around his night stick. He doesn't like this. Well, he hasn't liked any of this since the day they found out Murdoch had been found at the Windsor Hotel with Lydia Hall's body, truth be told. _Where the hell is he?_

"Well, then where _is_ he, George?" Jackson voices George's thoughts.

"I don't _know_ , Jackson." He's irritated, though not with Jackson or Higgins. He wonders if it's maybe from the visit from Graham, maybe it's the situation, he doesn't know. Something about the note… _For one thing, the Detective never calls me 'Crabtree,'_ he thinks to himself. Fight or flight kicks in. George is suddenly alert. _Something's not right_.

In the moment, he hears footsteps coming from…somewhere. _Left? Right? It's so dark in here that he could be straight in front of my nose and I wouldn't be able to tell._ "Detective?" he chances in a low whisper.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he _knows_ it's not Murdoch.

_Davis._

George only has a moment to register the first shot, which pings off a brass candle holder, and ricochets out into the pews somewhere. Wood splinters shatter. His instincts kick in- _the balcony. It came from-_

A second shot. This one buries itself in his chest before he can move for cover. It lands home just below his collarbone. The force is enough to spin him around. His torch clatters to the floor.

And then he's falling. He lands flat on his back, agony exploding behind his eyes as he came to a grim conclusion.

The whole thing was a setup! The note had his name on it, it'd been meant for _him_.

And Jackson and Higgins had come along- _oh, my Lord. Oh God. No!_

He doesn't register Higgins's grunt of pain, or see his friend collapse to the aisle right next to him, because his chest is on fire and there's pinpricks of white in his peripheral vision.

He can't hear anything over the shots raining into the ground as whoever is shooting at them fires blindly into the darkness on their position.

So he doesn't hear Jackson as a shot from above finds its way into his stomach, doubling him over and sending the big man to the ground.

_Another item in your long list of mistakes_. Graham's words invade the haze of pain.

It's not the first time he's been shot, but tonight, tonight the pain is _unbearable_. _Higgins. Jackson. Oh, God. It hurts._

George lets the darkness take him as gunfire echoes around him, drowning out his thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since George is the one they've been following and harassing for the better part of the episode, it's my headcanon theory that Davis & Graham perceived him as the biggest threat. All the name calling and mind games are meant to throw George off his game, because for all of that, I think they're scared that he'll figure it all out.
> 
> And so they sent the note, meant for him alone, but...Jackson and Higgins, of course, being the men that they are, came with him.


	9. Up From the Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After everything...George and Nina get a moment to themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extended/Missing Scene from 11x01, "Up From the Ashes"

George paced the hotel suite. "I have to let Miss Bloom know I'm still alive," he burst out. _Graham knows that I'm fond of her, or at the very least, that we're friends._ He was scared for her, and worried. _My 'death' on top of Lydia's…_ He would not be the reason that someone else he cared for had their life ruined by Robert Graham's hand.

"When this is over-" Watts began.

"Why bother?"

George looked over to Franklin Williams, who was eyeing the constable with a taunting smirk. "She's already taken up with Graham," the city councilman told George.

"You watch your mouth!" George growled at him. He refused to believe it. _Williams is trying to get to you,_ he told himself. _Don't believe it. Not Nina._

"It's the truth," Williams informed him, seemingly enjoying the look of torment on George's face. "Last time I saw them together, she was _all_ over him," he continued. He raised an eyebrow. "Brazen."

George registered Watts pushing himself off the doorframe, no doubt ready to rein George in if he got physical with Williams. _It won't do any good to beat the man senseless, not when he's set to testify_ , George's conscience reminded him. _Damn it._

"Well, if that's the case," George had a terrible thought. He looked at Watts urgently. "Then something's wrong. That's not her." He was halfway out of the room, barely registering Watt's warning of, "George, don't-" as he raced for the stairs. His heart was pounding. His chest heaved, and every step sent daggers of pain radiating through his entire left side. The streets were mostly empty, but he earned the looks of a few passersby as he dashed through the streets, taking the shortest route possible to the Star Room. _It's almost over now. Let them stare._

 _Nina's a wonderful actress. This must be a-a ruse of some sort,_ he thought, as he ran. _Perhaps she's working her own angle, trying to implicate Graham somehow, to avenge my death, and Lydia's_. He didn't know which scenario was the correct one. _No matter what, I just need to know she's all right._

He could deal with either scenario as long as she was alive and well.

* * *

George slowed a little as the Star Room came into view, not wanting to alert any of Graham's cronies, should they happen to be lurking about outside. He made his way to the back entrance, peered around the corner. There was no one standing guard that he could see. He crept up to the employee entrance. It was an entrance he was well familiar with, _though_ , he noted, _under much more pleasant circumstances._ It was how he knew that the back door didn't quite lock all the time, that if you applied _just_ the right amount of pressure to the door, lifted the doorknob ever so slightly-

 _Pop_. The lock disengaged. He allowed himself a moment of success, then eased the door open. The hall split in two at the door; to the left, it led to the main room and the bar storage. George chose that direction first, sidestepping the floorboards that he knew creaked under weight. _All those times seeing Nina after hours_ , he thought with an ironic smile, _who'd have thought that would pay off in this way_?

George ducked as he came around to where the bar met the hall, crouching under the small, waist-high swinging, saloon-style doors. The compression of his upper body made his chest inflame again. _I'm sure Dr. Ogden and Miss James would be less than thrilled with me right now_ , he chastised himself. _There'll be time to heal once this is over._

There was nothing between him and the rest of the room but the bartop. George put one hand on the countertop and raised himself so he his eyes were just over the top.

His eyes widened, and he stood completely up, his mouth an _o_ of surprise as he spotted Miss Marsh bound to a chair and gagged on the stage. He put a finger to his lips, came around the other side of the bar. "Is he here?" George asked quietly.

She nodded once.

"And is he with a dark haired woman?" _The most beautiful employee of this establishment? The woman who said she was proud of me for standing up for myself?_ He left that part unsaid as Miss Marsh nodded again, her eyes flickering toward backstage.

"I'll be back," he promised Miss Marsh, and cautiously made his way backstage, into the hallway once more. He pressed his back to the walls as he inched his way toward the dressing room. He could hear laughter coming from that doorway, and he felt a twinge of something that had nothing to do with his bullet wound. _Oh Nina…please…_

"I think we should be getting back-"

George's eyes narrowed. _Graham._

"I don't think so." The voice was Nina Bloom's, and her tone was deadly. George slowly looked into the room. Nina sat astride Robert Graham, who was lying prone on the bed. _The bed where I…where we…_ He shook his head. _Now is not the time for petty jealousy_ , he told himself. _Besides, from the looks of it, you have nothing to worry about in that department._

"You can't be serious." Graham was-was that _laughter_? George refrained from rolling his eyes. The man had gall, that was for certain.

"You killed my best friend," Nina countered. "You killed the best man I have _ever_ met!"

George felt a burst of pride at those words, and then a chill at, "And now, you are gonna die."

George saw something glinting in her hand, dangerously close to Graham's neck, in the low lamplight. _No, Nina, oh God. Don't._ He stepped into the room. "Nina! Nina, don't do it."

The dancer looked up at the sound of his voice. He watched her facial expression turn from murderous to a mix of confusion and relief. "George," she whispered.

 _His name sounded so good coming from her_. Almost as good as it had from Detective Murdoch. George nodded.

Graham bucked underneath Nina, seizing the moment and catching her off her guard. One moment, she'd had the upper hand; the next, George found himself in a state of terror as Graham pressed the stolen blade to Nina's neck, wrapping his arm around her thin frame. "Now Constable," his voice dripped with fake politeness, "that was a fortuitous entrance."

George glared daggers at him. "Let her _go_ , Graham." He kept one eye on the knife in Graham's hands as he tried to reassure Nina to stay calm.

"Your list of mistakes keeps growing," Graham was almost laughing at him.

George felt hot under the collar. If he'd had a pistol, well, no, even then, he wasn't sure if he'd be able to hit Graham without getting Nina, or be quick enough before Graham… _Damn it, why is it that this man always seems to have the upper hand?!_ "Just let her go," he begged the man, hating the catch in his voice.

"Get out of my way," Graham hissed at him.

George shook his head. The land developer's response was to jab the blade at Nina's neck, drawing blood. She cried out and the sound chilled George so much he backed up a couple of steps, his hands in the air. "All right!" he agreed. "All right." Graham walked his hostage from the room, right past George, so that he was close enough to see the fear in Nina's eyes. _If something happens to her…I cannot lose another friend to this man._

He followed a few steps behind them into the main room, and stopped short. Detective William Murdoch was just helping Miss Marsh from the chair, the ropes and the gag lying on the stage. "There are four of us, and only one of you, Mr. Graham," Murdoch said calmly, his eyes flickering to George. "I'd suggest you consider your odds."

George held his breath. Graham didn't seem terribly concerned with the turn of events. "I could kill her," he threatened, and George clenched a fist. "Just a flick of the wrist…"

"But then, you would surely be charged with murder," Murdoch reminded him. His steely gazed was fixed on the land developer now. "As of yet…regrettably…you won't be. But, one wrong move with Miss Bloom, here," Murdoch nodded to the young woman, "and all that will change."

For the next few moments, there was a tense standoff. George stood behind Graham, ready to tackle him if necessary, his whole body on alert. He could barely feel the pain in his chest for the adrenaline coursing through him. _I can't let this man hurt anyone else I care for._ _If he doesn't let her go…_

Graham tossed the knife to the table beside him, and eased his grip on Nina. She ducked out from under his arm, throwing herself into George's arms. He held her at arm's length, checking for any other wounds, and seeing none, wrapped her in his arms tightly, pressing a napkin from one of the tables to the wound on her neck. She smelled amazing. _God_ , he'd missed her. He kissed the top of her head, his eyes flickering to Murdoch and Graham.

"You realize, of course," Graham was telling Murdoch, "that she tried to kill _me_. I want her charged."

George rolled his eyes behind the man, knowing that he couldn't see him. _As soon as the crown attorney has everything in front of him, I'm sure he'll agree she'd have done Toronto a favor!_

Murdoch looked amused. "Mr. Graham," he said dryly, "I think you'll find that from this day forward…what _you_ want matters very little."

The detective looked at George. "Escort him to the station house, Constable Crabtree."

George drew himself up at the mention of his title. Nina was looking up at him proudly. George straightened his borrowed clothing, and walked up to Graham. The taller man was looking down on him derisively. "Sir," George acknowledged the order from Detective Murdoch- _and didn't it feel good to be doing_ that _once again_. They really _did_ function better as a team. "Just a minute."

 _I did make a promise, that if he came anywhere near Nina, badge be damned-_ George decked Robert Graham, sending the man sprawling atop a table.

"I hope you'll forgive me that, sir," he told Detective Murdoch.

Murdoch looked at Graham innocently. "For what?" he asked, and turned to help Miss Marsh down from the stage.

George hauled Graham off the table. The man was spouting diatribes about having George and Nina arrested for assault. George wrenched Graham's arm behind him and stuck a foot behind his knee, dropping the man to the floor. He bent down so he could whisper in Graham's ear. "You hurt my best friends in the world, Graham," he told him, his eyes flicking up to meet Nina's. "And you had a good man killed." His temper flared, but he kept it in check. _Steady, George. Jackson's death cannot be in vain._ Nina handed George a length of rope he knew they sometimes used in their acts. He maybe made the knots just a _tad_ tighter than would normally be approved. Then, he hauled Graham to his feet. "You endangered my family," George hissed in his ear. "Just another item to add to your long, _long_ list of _mistakes_."

With that, he pushed Graham forward, and out to the waiting police wagon. Murdoch assisted Miss Marsh into a waiting hansom cab, then turned to George. "If it's all right with you, sir," George said, threading his arm through Nina's, "I think I'd like to make sure Miss Bloom gets home all right."

Murdoch touched the brim of his homburg, and swung himself into the cab. George gave him a two-fingered wave, and waited until the cab had turned the corner before pulling Nina into his arms and kissing her soundly. When he finally broke off for a breath, he cupped her face in both his hands. "Are you all right?" he asked her worriedly. "Did he hurt you anywhere else?" He tilted her head so he could look at the wound on her neck.

"I'm fine, George," Nina assured him, tears welling in her eyes. "I'm not the one who almost died," she reminded him. She tucked her head under his chin, and he ignored the sharp pain that came along with it. "I'll be fine, now," she said, looking up at him.

"I'm so sorry about Lydia," George told her, his hand running absently up and down her back. "I-I wish I'd have been available to tell you that sooner," he added, his voice thick with emotion.

"I don't think I could have lived with myself if I'd have lost the both of you," Nina confessed. "I'm sorry about Constable Jackson," she said into his shirt. "If there's anything I could do-"

He cut her off with another kiss, and then hugged her tighter, resting his chin on top of her head. "Just this," George whispered, finally allowing himself to grieve. He could hear Nina sobbing into his jacket. "This is…well, this will do, for now."


	10. Down On the Corner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carlton & Parliament. A strange little corner of Toronto, protected by a constable who fits right in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene/inner thoughts from "Murdoch On the Corner," 06x03

It had to be the oddest jaunt in the entirety of Toronto. A strange little zigzag of a street, where Carlton made an almost 90 degree turn, went north for a short block, and then turned west and became Parliament. It was a strange little corner, in more ways than one.

It was a corner George Crabtree knew well. Five minutes' walk from his boarding house, and fifteen minutes from Station House #4. It was best to keep to the east side of the street in the winter, as the wind tended to snake up and over the hat shop and swirl clockwise, so that the snow piled up in front of the butcher's shop. But in the summer, the west side was the best, as there were more awnings on that side to provide shade, and the fire escapes that started in the alley and wound up around to the front above the storefronts also helped-especially when there was laundry stretched on the line between them.

Ten paces onto the short block, and you ran into a gentleman who spent a great deal of time talking to himself. He was not right in the head, but mostly harmless, and George had mostly learned to ignore him. But other times found himself lingering (and dealing with the soapbox preacher going on about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse-such a difference in style from Reverend Lovell, who preached love and salvation over hell and damnation) just to listen to what sort of internal conversation the gentleman was having with himself. Sometimes, he would get into an argument with himself and George would take hold of his arm and tell the 'other' gentleman to move along or he'd have him arrested, and the argument would cease. Other times, he would surreptitiously take his pencil and write down some of the conversation in his notebook, to use for inspiration later.

The ladies at the millinery shop liked to flirt, (twenty paces from the soapbox preacher) and George tended to avoid them. Unless they were talking to a customer, the women there paid very little mind to anything or anyone, and yet somehow knew everything and everyone that was happening. Otherwise, terribly vain and vapid, in his opinion. If George had to hear one more sales pitch about ribbons or real flowers in the band he would perhaps burn the entire place to the ground himself, just so the shallow conversation would cease.

It was a busy corner and so oftentimes a stranger would appear, trying to sell some newfangled food or invention to the locals, and George would catch himself listening, wide-eyed to whomever it was, knowing that if it turned out to be a confidence trickster that he'd have to run him off into Station House 3's jurisdiction. Let them deal with him. Other times, he found he was the one asking the most questions, being the most intrigued by the new arrival and wishing that he'd thought of it first!

Mrs. Lynd sat on her bench, her umbrella leaning against it, and complimented him on his smile as he walked down her side of the street. He blushed.

The tailor and the butcher were getting into it again out in the middle of the street, and George rolled his eyes, making a note to pass by on his way back to the Station House just to make sure they hadn't killed each other during the course of the afternoon. He caught the tailor's eye and raised an eyebrow in warning. The tailor's response was to mutter something inappropriate in Italian and storm back to his shop.

At least, George assumed it was inappropriate. He hadn't looked like he was complimenting George on his uniform. And when the butcher smirked triumphantly in George's direction, George gave him the same, stern look and he skulked off to his doorway, glowering at the constable.

 _It was a strange little corner, indeed_ , he thought, as he walked around in the early morning hustle and bustle of the crowds.

But it was his beat. His corner. And perhaps, he allowed, as he shook his head with a knowing smile and went to go break up yet another argument between the gentleman by the alley and himself, it took a strange man such as himself to walk among them, know them, and protect them.


	11. The Rules of the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gentleman abides by the rules of the game. Even if it's really, really difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reflections on "Friday the 13th, 1901," 07x14

A gentleman abides by the rules of the game.

When his broom had touched the rock during the curling match, he could have said nothing. He could have rubbed the victory in Leslie Garland's smug face. He could have celebrated the fact that there was one thing Leslie Garland couldn't best him at.

But the rules dictate that if you burn the stone, good sportsmanship requires you to confess the infraction.

And so he did, and lost something else to Leslie Garland.

When Garland came over to him and Murdoch at the pub after the match, and congratulated them on a game well played, he could have told Garland to shove off, or thrown his pint in his face. It would have been satisfactory, to see Leslie Garland's smug face dripping in amber liquid, to see him sputter. It would have been worth it, he decided, to get kicked out of the pub.

But the rules dictate that when your friend is in need of your counsel and your friendship and a listening ear, you put aside the troubles in your own personal life and you listen in earnest to theirs.

And so he did, and tried not to interrupt or one-up the detective in this instance. Anyone could see that the detective and Dr. Ogden were meant for each other; it remained to be seen with himself and Dr. Grace.

When the detective told him that Leslie Garland was a gentleman, he could have listed fifteen different reasons why Leslie Garland was in fact a smug, selfish, pandering bastard and should be strung from the nearest rooftop.

But the rules dictate that if you truly love someone, that you want them to be happy, even if they're not with you.

And he truly _did_ love Emily, and wanted her to be happy, even if he wasn't the one to make her that way. So if Leslie Garland made her happy, then he would try to be a gentleman, and accept that.

Sometimes, adhering to the rules really was the worst part.


	12. The Devil In the Details

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Staircase to Heaven," 05x10

_Pay attention to the small details._

George was all about the details. As a writer, the smallest of details could be important in immersing the reader in his fictional world. It was the details that could make or break a story. Things such as what a character looked like, and how they acted. Should the author forget, or change something, it could completely change the story. Your character couldn't have brown eyes at the beginning of the story and green ones at the end. Or be a left-handed shooter in one gun battle and a right-handed shooter at the climax. And continuity? Your main character couldn't be standing behind someone in one paragraph and seated at a table in the next, at least, not without the author having used words to move them. No, the details were important, both in writing and crime solving. George couldn't count the number of times that it had been the smallest, silliest, most easily overlooked _thing_ that led to them solving a crime.

(It was why he _hated_ looking through fingermarks, but he did it anyway.)

George kept a thesaurus and a dictionary in his desk drawers, because with words, the proverbial devil was in the details. For example, George considered himself a good constable. "Good": an adjective meaning suitable. He was a suitable constable. He had the appropriate qualities to be a constable-a keen eye, a belief that all men were virtuous (until they proved otherwise), and the skills that came with solving cases under Detective Murdoch.

But Murdoch…the detective was a _great_ detective. "Great" was completely different than "good": great meant impressive and extreme, and important, and Detective Murdoch was all of those things. The way he could find the smallest detail and turn the tide of a stalled investigation-the lengths that he would go to solve a case, and his position in the station house and in the eyes of every man in Station House 4. George admired Detective Murdoch simply because of his keen observational skills and his grasp of the science behind a crime, and the way he treated any theory or suggestion as if it was worth looking into.

George would never consider himself a 'great' constable-at least, not yet. Perhaps someday he might get to that level.

As he sat in the Inspector's office the following morning after the storm, however, he was indeed feeling more "great" than "good."

"How did you spot him?" Detective Murdoch sounded genuinely curious, and George was more than happy to pass on what he'd learned from his mentor: the small details.

"The shoes, sir," George said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smile. "Hardly police issue." The Inspector was nodding approvingly. He thought about the evening before-how the man in the constable's uniform was _not_ wearing the boots that every constable so meticulously shined and polished and took care of. Even George, after being out in the rain that night, as soon as he'd locked up the Razor in the Station House 4 cells, had sat down at his desk and took a rag to his boots to get the muck from the laneway off of them.

The detective looked impressed, and George puffed out his chest just a bit. "Very good, George," Detective Murdoch told him. And George didn't mind the Detective calling him 'good,' because "good" also meant of a high quality or standard.

And if George did say so himself, between discovering the shoes and knocking the Razor on his arse in the laneway, he'd done a _damned_ good job.


	13. What Friends Are For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry Higgins is obnoxious, and on occasion lazy, but that doesn't make him any less of a good friend.  
> Missing scenes/thoughts from "War on Terror," 05x04

He hadn't been lying, when he'd told Inspector Brackenreid that he'd never seen it coming. One moment, he'd been joking back and forth with Higgins; the next, there'd been a burst of flame and glass. The concussion wave hit him so hard, he didn't remember hitting the ground. He'd woken up being shaken by Worsley, the receiver for the call box still in his hand. Worsley was asking him something, but the ringing in his ears was so bad he couldn't hear him, just saw his lips moving. Something was trickling into his eye; he reached a hand up and it came away smeared red.

Worsley had propped him against the damn call box, which was still standing; George had no idea how. Everything hurt. He could barely move. When the inspector came over, he'd tried to stand, but Brackenreid had gently held him back with one hand, concern in his eyes. Because despite the gruff exterior, George knew, the inspector would go to hell and back to see his men were protected.

George tried to think back, remembering the events that had transpired. Stopping to make a quick call in to the station, Higgins….Higgins said something about his book- _Henry!_

"How's Henry?" he whispered, trying to see over the top of the inspector's shoulder. He saw the inspector glance behind him to look at….something, George couldn't see what.

"Right as rain," Inspector Brackenreid told him. But his smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

 _Henry…_ He needed to get to the bottom of this, to find out what the hell had just happened. "Sir, I need to assist Detective Murdoch-"

"Stay where you are, Crabtree," Inspector Brackenreid said. "Murdoch'll be fine." A _nd you won't be of any help in your current condition anyway, bugalugs,_ was left unsaid. George wanted to argue with him, but he couldn't make his lips form the words. Instead, he felt Worsley helping him to his feet and walking with him to the ambulance carriage.

That was when he'd gotten his first look at Henry. His partner's face was ashen, his eyes closed. He'd never seen Henry so….so _still_ before. Idle, yes, he'd seen him doing nothing at his desk before, it was almost a daily occurrence, but never doing _nothing_. It unnerved him. He couldn't take his eyes off his partner as they were driven to Toronto General.

* * *

The doctor had pronounced him fine. _Fine_ didn't seem like a good word-he'd been knocked off his feet, slightly _concussed_ , but the doctor said that the way he was leaning against the call box, the call box had probably taken most of the blast. A few days of restricted duty, and a lot of rest, and he would be right as rain in no time.

 _Right as rain_ …

The same could not be said for Henry. Henry had been the closest of the two of them to the blast and had suffered the brunt of it. They wouldn't let George see him, but George was told he was unconscious but didn't appear to have life-threatening injuries. The doctor had said that if Henry had been even inches closer, his prognosis wouldn't be nearly as positive.

 _Thank goodness for small favors_ , George supposed.

* * *

"It would benefit me greatly if I could accompany you on your investigation."

Had it been any other day, George would have leapt at the chance to have Dr. Grace accompany him anytime, anywhere. But all he could think about was Henry, lying in Toronto General. _Had I not stopped for that phone call…something that probably could have waited until we returned to the station house, and now his friend was lying unconscious in a hospital bed…_

"I am prepared to assume the risk."

 _Yes_ , George thought, _but I am not. Not after today_. "I'm sorry, Doctor. It would be irresponsible of me." He didn't miss the disappointment in her eyes, and he felt a pang of guilt in his stomach, but he stood by his decision. No one else was going to get hurt on his watch.

* * *

It was a relief to hear that the detective had spoken with Henry, albeit briefly. Surely if he'd woken up once, he would do it again, George reassured himself.

Henry Higgins was a sea of contradictions. George could not figure him out. They were friends. He wouldn't go so far as 'best' friends, because George felt a closer kinship to Detective Murdoch most days than he did Henry, _but,_ they were indeed friends. It was why he so vehemently affirmed that fact to Angus Trout, to Dr. Grace when they'd passed off the explosion as part of just another day. Henry could have _died._ This was not something to be taken lightly! Just because it _hadn't_ happened, didn't mean it _couldn't_ have. And it was the unknown that bothered George. _Just a few inches one way or the other..._

Henry was a man George could rely on, albeit with a little prodding and persuasion. He was quick with a joke, the first to want to spend a night out as soon as they punched out. He wasn't afraid to tell you what he thought, a trait George both admired and abhorred about Henry. _I wonder what he was about to say about my book before-_

 _My book_. George opened his desk drawer and retrieved a well-worn copy of _The Curse of the Pharaohs._ A quick stop in the Detective's office, and then he was on his way to the hospital. When he'd been unwell as a child (and growing up in the cold North Atlantic, that was often), his aunts had read aloud to him all the time. It passed the time, and it was comforting to hear a familiar voice.

 _And,_ George thought, _sometimes, it was just nice to know someone else was there_. He didn't know if Henry knew he was there as he picked a spot where the action picked up in the book and began reading aloud, earning him several raised eyebrows from the nursing staff. But George knew he was making an effort, and that mattered to him.

Henry Higgins was obnoxious, and on occasion lazy, and sometimes George wondered what on _Earth_ he'd been drinking when he'd decided to become a constable.

But if their roles had been reversed, George knew, Henry would be pounding down doors along with Detective Murdoch to find the culprit. He'd go from one end of the province to the other to track down whoever had done this.

Because that's what friends did for each other.

So this was the least he could do. And when he finished the chapter, and stood to go, he was more determined than ever that when he returned to read the ending to an _awake_ Henry, he could confidently say he'd done everything he'd done to bring the bomber to justice.

That's what Henry would do.


	14. Talk Less

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Effie's not dealing with the bombing well. George knows what that's like.  
> Missing scene from, "Troublemakers," 13x01

George heard a voice from backstage over the top of Katherine Talbot ask, "What are you doing there?" and then the stage exploded outward into the audience. He turned to Henry.

Henry had a frozen look of shock on his face and had gone suddenly pale. George was acutely aware of what had happened the last time a bomb went off in Henry's vicinity. _Now's not the time, friend_ , he thought, and shook his partner. "Henry, make sure everybody gets out," George ordered him, giving his partner a hard shove to snap him out of it.

Henry blinked and shook his head to clear it. From that point forward, he was all business, and George moved to do the same. He ran up the aisle to where Dr. Ogden was knelt down next to Katherine Talbot. The force of the blast had sent her into the front row, and she was lying on her side, breathing heavily.

"Dr. Talbot, are you quite all right?" Julia was asking her. George reached for her wrist and pressed two fingers to her radial artery. Her heart was racing, but that was to be expected, he supposed.

Then he heard a panicked voice from the front of the stage. "Oh, Lord!"

His own pulse began to race. The voice belonged to Effie. He'd seen her come in, but had lost her in the shuffle as people ran from the room in terror. He looked back, saw Effie knelt down on the steps of the stage next to a body. _Oh, God._ He looked down at Dr. Talbot, torn.

She looked up at him. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Go and see if she's okay," she gasped out, and George complied, leaving Dr. Talbot on the floor and rushing to the stage. The woman on the ground was Clara Brett Martin, and Julia was instructing Effie on how to apply pressure to the wound in her chest, red blossoming under her fingers.

George froze. _Vague sensations of hands holding him down, bright lights, pain in his upper chest…_

"George, we need an ambulance right away!" Julia's voice interrupted his morbid thoughts and with one last glance at Effie, who, under her hat, was as pale as Henry had been, and then spun on his heel to locate an ambulance.

* * *

"Where's Julia, is she all right?" Detective Murdoch was trying to keep a professional demeanor, but George could see it in his friend's face that he was worried.

"Sir, yes. Ah, her and Dr. Talbot are already off to the hospital-" he saw Murdoch's posture drop in relief, "-they're tending to Miss Martin." Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Effie sitting on a chair in the front of the room. She was sitting primly, her hands folded in her lap, but he could see it in her eyes…

"How's her condition?" Inspector Brackenreid asked, and George forced himself to pay attention.

"She's alive. Beyond that, I don't know."

_Effie's hands, pressed against Miss Martin's chest, visibly shaking._

"All right. Where was Dr. Talbot standing?" Murdoch asked.

George glanced around. "Right about here, I suppose," he said.

_Dr. Talbot getting pushed off the stage from the shockwave of the explosion, almost into the front row of chairs._

"So quite a ways from the explosion." Murdoch was in full-on investigative mode, and normally, George would be on board with that, but right now, all he could think about was Effie and the look on her face and the terror in her voice. It was hard to stay engaged in the conversation.

"Sir, perhaps somebody meant to fling it," he suggested, wanting to get this out of the way quickly so he could check on Effie. "I mean, wait until Dr. Talbot was mid-bluster and then-" He made an overhand throwing motion.

"It exploded early," Murdoch finished the thought. "Perhaps he wasn't very experienced."

Brackenreid raised an eyebrow. "Explosives is not the field to learn on the job," he said.

George looked to front row. Effie was looking up at him. She'd been crying, or _was_ crying, it was hard to tell. George couldn't take it anymore. "Sirs," he interrupted. "Do you mind if I have a word with Miss Newsome?" he asked. _I've told you everything I know, anyway._

"Of course," Murdoch nodded to him.

George took off at a jog, sliding into the chair next to Effie as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. "Hey," he whispered. "Let's take care of this, shall we?" He took her hand gently in his, rubbed at the red spots still left on her hands that she hadn't been able to get off in the washroom. Her fingers latched around his, white-knuckled, and she wouldn't look at him.

"Let's get some air," George suggested. He got to his feet, pulling her up with him. He put a hand on her back and let her hold his hand as they made their way out the side door of the hall and out into street. George led her to a bench and sat her down. "There. Much better," he said.

Effie still refused to meet his eye, and George lifted her chin with a finger. "Effie."

"Sh-she was bleeding," Effie stammered. "I-I could feel her heart beating under my fingers. It was so-so faint, and I was pushing down so _hard_ I thought I might-"

"It's no easy thing," George said quietly. "Having somebody else's life in your hands," he added, when her face narrowed in confusion. "Effie, you probably saved her life," he told her. He shook his head. "No, scratch that, you _did_ save her life. Drs. Ogden and Talbot will take care of her."

Effie looked at him, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes and spilling onto her cheeks. "I don't know how you do it, George," she breathed.

George reached up, brushed a tear away with his thumb. "Well, welcome to a day in the life of the Toronto Constabulary," he said wryly.

"Please don't joke," Effie whispered.

He winced. "I didn't mean to make light of it," he apologized. _George, you ought to know better, remember how it felt when people tried to make light of the last explosion you were involved with?_ "It-it's just the truth." He grasped her hands again. "I go out every day not knowing what's waiting for me: a-a mad bomber, or a sequential killer or...or flying pigs…"

She looked at him, and George held a hand up. "I swear it to you," he affirmed. "Anyway," he continued, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb, "it's not something that becomes routine by any means. I've been close to the worst," he said. He felt her shiver and he slid a hand around her waist, not caring that they were in public or if anyone saw. "Talking helps," he told her. "A-and I can tell you that if you ever need somebody to talk to about this, well," here he smiled at her, "Let's just say I can relate. Better than you think."

Effie nodded. "But not right now," she said, shifting so she could rest her head on his shoulder.

"No," George agreed, shifting back against the bench. "No, not right now."


	15. A Game For Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Extended scene from "The Future is Unwritten," 13x18.  
> George and Effie are both 'winners' at the end of the episode, but as the evening progresses, they'll have to play collaboratively against their insecurities to beat them.

"What woman in her right mind wouldn't want to bed a successful writer?"

It was at that moment George knew, that any ill thoughts Effie Newsome may have been holding against him had been banished. Effie was smart as a whip and cheeky to boot but rarely outside of his company. So if she was comfortable enough right here, in this moment, in this corner booth, to make a statement like that _especially_ when George knew it was a load of bunk… _Successful writer my foot_ -he winced. _Bad analogy._

He cocked his head sideways. "Is that what I am to you, Miss Newsome?" he questioned. He tried to sound offended. "Just another notch in your belt?"

She met his gaze across the table. "Don't be silly, George," she told him innocently. "I don't wear a belt."

 _God_ but he'd missed her. Next book tour (and if this all wasn't fodder for his next novel, he didn't know what would be), she was coming with him. He didn't know if he could stand to be away from her for that long again.

"Oh, and what do you wear?" he countered, purposely poking at his food and avoiding the glint in her eyes.

"A corset."

George would _hate_ to be on the receiving end of her in a court of law, he decided. She had all the right answers and knew _just_ the right way to phrase a question. Any man on the stand would be putty in her _very_ capable hands. He could feel himself getting hot under his collar, but he wasn't done with her yet.

"A corset," he scoffed at her. "And I thought you were such a _modern_ woman."

And apparently, she wasn't done with him, he noted. _This must be some kind of punishment,_ he decided, as Effie suddenly became _very_ focused on the plate in front of her. He'd been so intent on looking in her eyes that he almost fell across the table.

"I am _plenty_ modern, George Crabtree," she informed him.

 _Oh, believe me, I'm aware, Miss Newsome_. "Well," he said nonchalantly, scooping up a piece of the pie crust on his plate, "belts, corsets…" He eyed her, watching her reaction. "I say we do away with the lot of them."

Her fork slipped from her fingers. "Shall we get the bill?" she suggested.

"Mmhm." He smirked and motioned for their server. _I believe I win_.

* * *

"You really should see a doctor about that foot," Effie chided him in a whisper as she helped him through her door. Though his boarding house was much closer, Effie had the advantage of being on the ground floor, which made it much easier for George on his foot. George managed to hobble over to the lounger while Effie closed the door.

"Effie, the only person-oof-" George grunted as he half-sat, half-fell onto the lounger, setting the cane beside him. He looked up at her. "The only person I'd like to see right now is _you_."

She locked her door and turned around slowly. "You're injured," she said. "I don't think-"

"There's a great many who think that shouldn't," George told her, carefully sliding his jacket off his shoulders. "And right now, you're one of them."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, so you think that you can just order me around after being gone for weeks, spending part of that time with another woman behind my back?"

He loosened his tie. "Effie, I was _kidnapped_ ," he pointed out, tugging his tie off and throwing it to the floor. "I spent the better part of the last two days tied to a chair with a broken foot in the presence of a madwoman!"

Effie came over, sat down on the bed across from him. "I was so worried about you," she confessed, the playful banter suddenly taking a serious turn. George stopped fumbling with his shirt buttons and looked up at her. "When Henry that you'd been seen with another woman, I…" She bit her bottom lip and looked down at her hands in her lap. "I-I just thought-"

_I'm going to kill Higgins._

George shook his head in annoyance of his partner. Effie Newsome presented herself as a modern woman, and she was that, George knew. Suffragette, attorney for the defense, but under that, _clearly_ , George realized, _a woman, nonetheless._ George pushed himself onto his feet, and came over to sit next to her. "The only thing I could think about," he confessed to her, "the whole time I was in that chair…was that if she…" He paused, not wanting to upset Effie, but wanting to tell her the honest-to-God truth. "If something would happen to me, that I would never have gotten a proper goodbye from you," he said finally. "You're all I could think about." He blinked. "Well, that and perhaps hoping Detective Murdoch would come break down the door, preferably _before_ she broke another limb..."

"Don't joke," Effie whispered, and George grimaced. _Nice going, George._

He took her hands in both of his. "I'm sorry I worried you," he told her. He cleared his throat. "I mean, I couldn't help it, but I'm sorry anyway."

George waited. Effie was quiet. She wasn't crying, or anything, she was just…quiet. It was a different kind of quiet, George thought, than the long bouts of silence when Amelia had been reading his 'edited' ending…he never quite knew if she was going to go off at any second. That silence had been terrifying.

This silence…it was almost refreshing. He felt calm and relaxed with Effie, not on edge in the slightest. It just felt…right.

After a few moments, Effie slipped her hands out of his grip, and began fiddling with his shirt buttons. He looked up at her.

"I can't stand the thought of that…that _woman_ hurting you," Effie admitted quietly as George pulled his shirttails from his trousers so she could get the last few buttons. She gently slid the shirt off his shoulders so he was sitting in his undershirt and trousers.

"A kiss might make it better," George replied, testing the waters.

She slowly slid her hands up his arms to his shoulders. He shivered as she carefully kissed him where his neck met his shoulders, then his jawline. His pulse throbbed. "W-we might have to take it easy," he reminded her.

"That's why," Effie replied, pulling her hairpins so her brown hair fell loose around her shoulders, "you're going to relax, and let me take care of you."

He tensed, and she caught it, looking at him in concern. George waved her off. "It's-it's nothing."

"It's _not_ nothing," Effie burst out. "We need to get you to Toronto General."

"It's not that," George assured her. He took a breath and let it out. "That's...that's what _she_ said. That she couldn't let me go because she wanted to 'take care' of me," he explained. "I-It's not you, Effie. I swear it."

He reached up and caught her hands in his, carefully turned her around and tucked her hair over her shoulder so he could help her with the back of her dress. "I'm sorry," he told her. "I'm afraid this got to me more than I believed it had." He paused. "Perhaps, I-I should go home tonight. Maybe I...maybe _we_ just need some-"

She turned and kissed him so fast and so soundly he nearly fell backwards. _Or, perhaps not_. When she finally broke off the kiss, they were both breathing heavily. Fingers, trembling, George turned her back around slowly and returned to work on her corset. "It's um, it's been awhile, but I think I remember how this goes."

"I hope..." Effie said quietly, playing with her hair, "I hope that it gives you something else to concentrate on. I'm sorry I said anything."

"Don't be," George countered quickly. "You couldn't have known."

His light touch on the laces of her corset left her tingling. She let out a sigh of happiness as he loosened them. "I missed you, too. Next time, you're not allowed to be gone nearly as long."

"Next time?" George said thoughtfully, pausing on the laces so he could kiss the back of her neck, "I'll just take you with me. That way, my 'modern woman' can protect me."

She gasped and whirled to face him. He grinned at the look of shock on her face. "What?" he asked with a smirk. "After all, I _was_ the one in distress," he reminded her.

Effie reached for a pillow and whacked him in the chest with it. "Hey!" he protested. "I'm _still_ in distress, mind you!"

She smirked back at him. "Then save yourself," she told him. "You're good at that."

George laughed, pulling her down onto the bed with him. "Not tonight. Tonight, I'm perfectly happy to leave that to you."


	16. Power Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of power goes to George's head.  
> Extended scene from "Murdoch Ahoy," 07x01

"I didn't take your damn barrel!"

George looked at Annie Taylor.

"Liar!"

He pivoted to face her manager.

"You know what, I wish I _had_ taken it! Then I could sell it and get you off my back!"

_Good Lord. The Inspector and the detective can come back anytime, now._

"Constable Crabtree?"

_Oh God, what now?_

(He recognized the voice as Dr. Grace, though, which was a refreshing sound compared to the pithy argument he was currently being subjected to.)

George held up a hand inbetween Mrs. Taylor and her manager, fixing them both with a glare. "You two excuse me for a moment." As an afterthought, he added, "And no fisticuffs!"

No sooner had he turned his back, the arguing began anew.

"I bet that was your plan all along! Send me over the falls, then extort me out of my meager earnings!"

"Good God, woman, will you get ahold of yourself?"

He pinched the bridge of his nose and closed Murdoch's office door behind him. "Please tell me this is important?" he told Emily. "What is it, Dr. Grace?"

"Shelley's missing!" Emily's tone was somewhere between angry and distraught.

George's eyes widened. "Someone stole a _body?_ "

_Next Victoria Day, I'm calling out_.

Emily shook her head. "Shelley. My skeleton."

An image flashed through George's mind of the full-size human skeleton that was almost as tall as he was that hung from a hook in the morgue. How many times had he accidentally been terrified by _Shelley_ out of the corner of his eye? _Can't say I'd be sorry to see her go._

He caught Emily looking at him, and he covered up his malicious thoughts quickly with, "I-I didn't know she had a name."

"It's a _he_ ," Emily corrected him.

He frowned. "You named _him_ …Shelley?"

She nodded, looking pleased with herself. "After the poet." At George's confused look she said, " Dead poet. Skeleton…?" Sighing, she shook her head. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. I went to a lot of work to put him together! Every bone, every phalange screwed, drilled, wired…" She threw up her hands in frustration. "And now someone has just helped themselves to him!"

"Did you notice, did they take anything else?" George asked, trying to placate her. Thefts from the morgue were going to take priority over a missing barrel, _so thank goodness for small favors_.

"Not that I could tell."

_Who in the world would steal a skeleton from the morgue, but not take any of the tools, o-or the medicines, o-or_ … George's deductive skills were on overdrive. There were a million more things more valuable in the morgue than Shelley the Skeleton. _What in the-_ "Emily, I promise, I will get to the bottom of this-Jackson?" George looked up at the big constable, eyeing him suspiciously. "You look…flustered," George decided on finally.

Jackson rocked on his heels, then, finally, "Someone stole my helmet."

"Well someone stole my skeleton," Emily interjected, as if that was a higher priority.

"Your what?"

_Oh, for the love of-_ "Oh. _Wait_." The wheels were turning. George tapped a finger to his lips, thinking. "A barrel," he ticked off his fingers, "a skeleton…and a copper's topper." He grinned.

_Gotcha._

He turned to Jackson. "Jackson, take Higgins and go down to Parliament." He smiled. "You're looking for a group of university-aged lads." The other man looked confused, but nodded, and went to go find Henry.

He glanced back at Murdoch's office. Annie Taylor and her manager were _still_ arguing. George sighed. "Now, to tell them the good news," he said to Emily. "That is, if I can get a word in edgewise."

* * *

About a half hour later, Jackson and Higgins returned to the station with three young men, a skeleton, Jackson's helmet, and a barrel between them. "Take those items to the Detective's office until they can be returned to their rightful owners," George told his fellow constables. He glared at the three boys, with what he hoped was a stern look. "And let's have the three of them to the Detective's office as well until we can decide what to do with them. It may be they're spending the night in the cells."

It was _extremely_ statisfying to see all three boys' faces pale as Jackson pushed them ahead of him.

Emily glanced at him. "George, what-"

He held up a hand, waiting until the three boys were escorted into Detective Murdoch's office before saying, "They're not going to spend the night in the cells. They'll be going home after we have a little chat."

Then, he winked. "But they don't know that."

Emily's face lit up in understanding. "Might I be permitted to observe, Constable Crabtree?" she asked him.

He grinned. "Why of course, Dr. Grace," he responded. He coughed, and steeled his features. Then, he pushed open the detective's door with such force that it startled all three of the boys, who were standing on the wall, sweating nervously. He glared at them, pacing in front of them. "Every year," he began, "at the end of term, you fraternity chaps like to have a little _fun_. Don't you?"

One boy opened his mouth to respond and George fixed him with a Look. The boy shrank back. _Smart lad. That's the same look the Inspector gives Higgins_. _Always wanted to try it._ "But to do so on _Victoria_ Day!" George continued, wagging his finger shamefully at them. "A day for showing respect for our dear, deceased monarch. It's not a day for this..this type of _tomfoolery_ -"

He saw Emily's mouth twitch, like she was trying not to laugh, and it only encouraged him. "Or, rascality, or _ballyhoo_ -"

"Constable," Emily cut in.

_Maybe that last one was a little much._ "Or shenanigans," he amended.

"George," Emily said, a little more forcefully. He paused, and she jumped on the boys. "If you've damaged Shelley…" she trailed off, letting the warning hang in the air.

"We're sorry!" the boy in the middle of the three burst out. "We were going to give it back, honestly!"

"Please, sir." The boy on the end's voice held a note of terror. "If my father found out…"

_You'd be out of university on your entitled arse,_ George thought to himself, but didn't say it aloud. He looked at Emily, then at the three boys, as if debating a great decision. Finally, he said, "Never let it be said that George Crabtree is not a fair man," he began. He caught Emily's smirk and tried not to laugh. _Stay in character, George_. "You lads will wash this station from top to bottom," he informed them. "And your parents need not know about this little incident. _And_ ," he added, "you will write a letter of apology to Miss Taylor."

All three boys sagged in relief. But George wasn't done with them yet. "And if there's anymore of this waggery, or devilment-"

He saw Emily roll her eyes as if to tell him he was pushing it. "That's enough," he told the boys, jerking his head toward the door. "Get out."

The three of them practically tripped over themselves exiting, where Jackson and Henry were waiting for them with a mop, a bucket, and a cloth. Henry looked _overly_ pleased, George noted. _He's going to have a bit too much fun with this._

_Oh, and you didn't_? his conscience asked him, and George found he couldn't argue.


	17. One Small Step

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Be the change that you wish to see in the world."- Gandhi.  
> Missing/Extended scenes from "Werewolves," 02x12

**One Small Step: "Werewolves," 2x12**

_Because I can't change the world._

The Inspector's words echoed in his head as George lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling. His mind was going a thousand miles an hour, too worked up to rest.

Jimmy McLeod was as capable as any man of becoming a constable. He remained calm under pressure. He stuck with the facts, took orders well. George though of him, working in the stables, and was reminded of the menial tasks he'd first had to do when he'd joined the constabulary at Station House 1. He'd soon moved through the ranks. But Jimmy? Jimmy would remain there forever, or until such time when the world looked past the color of his skin to see his intellect, his keen senses, his sharp mind.

 _It's unfair_. George rolled over, pounded his pillow. It was unfair that a man as capable as that _couldn't_ be a constable! _More than that, it's unfair that a_ good _man like that can't be a constable_.

He thought of Detective Murdoch. Murdoch would never rise through the ranks, forever stuck as Detective, because he was Catholic. _And that's not fair either_ , George thought.

Growing up, the Reverend had taught him to look past people's outward appearances. "I am just a man," he'd told George once. "The Lord did not attempt to change people on the outside, rather, He accepted them as they were." He'd ruffled George's hair and added, "What is on the outside does not qualify a man. What matters is what's in his heart."

 _Perhaps one day, things will change,_ George thought, rolling over to face the wall. _Perhaps someday, people won't be judged based on their skin color, or their heritage, or their religion. And what a world that will be. Perhaps one day, men will be revered for what's on the inside, in their hearts and minds, rather than what people can see outwardly._

His eyes widened. _The Constabulary may not be accepting of Jimmy as he is_ , he thought, an idea coming to him. He grinned and shook his head. _But I know someone who might be._

* * *

The next morning, George was dressed and at Station House 4 far earlier than his shift start. The boys on the night shift seemed surprised to see him there so early. He asked the desk sergeant to put in a call for him.

When the operator connected, the sergeant handed it over to George. "O'Mara," he grinned. "You old devil."

" _George Crabtree. Aye, but it's been some time! You sound the same!"_

George rolled his eyes. "You've not lost your brogue either, O'Mara. Say, listen. I have a man you may be interested in meeting…"

George was practically bouncing on his heels as he waited for Jimmy McLeod to leave the Inspector's office after giving his final account of the night before. "Jimmy!" he called out, jogging to catch up with the tracker.

Jimmy paused, turning around with a smile. "You off, then?" George asked him.

Jimmy nodded politely. "Back to the stables," he said. His voice was light, but George detected a hint of disappointment underneath it. He caught George's sympathetic expression and they shared a thin smile.

"Well," George said, "it was a pleasure working with you." He meant every syllable. "But you know, in my opinion, the constabulary are wasting your talents," he burst out.

"Well, there's no changing the world, George," Jimmy reminded him, echoing their carriage ride conversation from a few nights ago.

"Maybe not," George replied, knowing that at least to some extent, that was probably true. For the moment. He couldn't change the world _but,_ he thought, _I can maybe change just one thing._ He reached into his pocket, pulled out a folded piece of paper. He handed it to Jimmy. "But this might help you," he told him.

Jimmy looked at the name and address scribbled on the paper. "What's this?" he questioned.

" _This_ ," George said, "is a friend of mine who works at the Pinkertons. I told him about you. He seems very keen. You should go to the local office and ask for him."

Jimmy was silent for a moment. Then, he looked at George. "I'll think about it."

George nodded. "You do that."

The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then, Jimmy offered his hand to George. George shook it, hard. Jimmy held up the piece of paper as he walked away, and George noted a smile on his face.

 _No, perhaps there's no changing the world_ , George thought. _At least, not overnight. But perhaps if we all started with just one thing, even something small…_

With a satisfied smile, George returned to his desk. _What a world, indeed_.


	18. A Friend Indeed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The blow to the head by Cecil Fix wasn't just a simple knock to the head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scenes from 03x11, "Hangman"

Henry Higgins returned from his supper run and banged on the carriage door. "George?" he called, waiting a moment between knocks. There was no answer from within, and Henry shook his head. Likely he's fallen asleep and somehow I'll be the one blamed if things go awry… He gripped the door handle and pulled, thinking of all the ways he could pull a joke over on his friend if he truly was asleep on his watch.

His eyes widened. His partner was slumped over the bench seat, head resting on his arm, his lower body contorted on the floor of the carriage. His uniform jacket and trousers were missing, and, Henry could see from the light spilling in from the street lamp, there was a nasty bruise on George's head. "Oh, God. George?" Henry stepped over his partner and shook his shoulder, hard. "George!"

* * *

George Crabtree was acutely aware of someone calling his name, but it was so far away. He remembered light exploding behind his eyes, and then darkness. Now, as he came back to his senses, he realized it was Henry shaking him awake, and his head was killing him. He opened his eyes gingerly; the interior of the carriage swirled in his vision. His head felt heavy. "H-Henry?" he swallowed hard. Speaking made his stomach churn.

"George, what the hell happened?" Henry asked him, helping him to a sitting position up on the bench.

George blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. "I-I'm not…" He frowned. "Cecil Fox. I think it was Cecil Fox." He tried to stand, to get out of the carriage, but his legs didn't want to listen to his brain. His head dipped, and George felt Henry slip under his shoulder, steadying him. "Thanks."

"George, he took your uniform. I…here." Henry carefully helped George sit, leaning against the wall of the carriage, and unbuttoned his uniform jacket. "I'm not giving you my trousers," Henry warned him, "but this is better than nothing." He helped his partner into his jacket, then opened the door. "Come on," he said. "We've got to get you back to the station house."

"Murdoch's going to kill me," George mumbled as he awkwardly half stumbled, half fell from the carriage. His full weight landed on Henry and the other man groaned as he tried to keep George upright.

"You were taken by surprise," Henry grimaced, slipping George's arm over his shoulders. "That wasn't your fault."

"Got to…" George's knees buckled, and Henry shifted quickly to keep him standing.

"George, are you sure you're all right?" Henry frowned. "This seems like more than a bump on the head." They passed a street lamp, and Henry watched his partner clamp his eyes shut and give a short gasp of pain. "You're not all right. When we get to the station house, I'm telling Detective Murdoch-"

"No!" The pain in George's voice made Henry stop so short they both nearly fell over. George opened his eyes slowly, looked at Henry. "'m fine. I'm fine."

"George, you're not-"

"Just a knock on the head. I'm fine." He looked at Henry pleadingly. "Have a laugh about it, but don't tell the detective." He took a breath and held it, trying desperately not to retch all over his partner's boots. "Made a mistake," he whispered quietly, waiting for the nausea to subside. "Have to fix it."

Henry looked up and back at him. "Are you sure?" he asked finally.

George nodded. Stars exploded in his peripheral vision, but he grit his teeth as he said, "I'm fine."

Henry shook his head. "You know, if it was me, I'd play up this for all it's worth so I'd get to go home early," he told his partner.

George coughed out a laugh. "You…not that good an actor, Henry," he breathed. "Good friend, though. You're a good friend."

Henry rolled his eyes. "Keep your voice down," he told him. "Or I'll knock you out myself. I've got an image to uphold." The corner of his mouth twitched, and he saw George's do the same, before his partner dropped to the ground and threw up on Henry's boots.

Henry forced himself to stay put. Good friend, indeed.


	19. A Heated Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being the one to dig the holes all the time takes a toll on George's health one unseasonably warm afternoon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missing scene from 07x12, "Unfinished Business"

"I think he's asleep."

"Should we wake him?"

"The Inspector will have his arse if he catches him sleeping on the job."

"Good point. Go on, then."

"Me? You're the one who pointed it out."

"Lads," George Crabtree cut in tiredly, yawning as he lifted his head off his forearms. "I'm awake."

"Only just," McNabb pointed out, exchanging a glance with John Hodge. He noted George's pale complexion and the slow blink of George's eyes as the constable leaned slowly back in his chair. "You all right, George?" he questioned.

"Aside from you and Hodge yammering in my ears and the splitting headache, I'm well enough, thank you." The snap didn't have George's usual bite-in fact, the man sounded exhausted.

"You sound like hell," McNabb informed him. George didn't bother with a comeback.

Hodge studied him. He'd noted George hadn't been looking well earlier that morning when they'd been out digging for Mr. Roundhill's supposedly murdered wife. Though, he admitted, none of them on that particular assignment had looked well. The day was unbearably hot for June, hot enough that the Detective, bless him, had let them strip to their skivvies to do the digging, with a whispered, "Don't tell the Inspector."

Hodge had been trading off with Wilcox and teaming for their share, but George had largely been on his own, and his spot hadn't been near as shady as their own. "George."

The constable lifted his head off his chest high enough to make eye contact-eye contact, Hodge realized, that was slow in focus. "George, have you had much to drink today?"

The younger man frowned at the line of questioning and arched an eyebrow. "Excuse me?" he demanded, insulted. "W-who do you I look like to you? Higgins?"

McNabb snorted, but Hodge pressed. "That isn't what I mean, George. Water. It's hotter than the devil's pockets today, and we spent most of the morning out in the sun and humidity digging for that body. Have you had any water today?"

Understanding dawned on McNabb's face, and he surreptitiously backed away to the water cooler.

Hodge waited for George's answer. The other man took a breath and let it out. "Truth be told, Hodge, no, I haven't. First the digging, and I was too tired after that so I came directly back here, and then Lutz was dealing with a belligerent suspect in the cells and I assisted with that, and I'm a bit behind in my paperwork from an arrest yesterday. A drink's been on my mind, but not in the form of water-"

The room spun. "Head between your knees," Hodge ordered him, guiding George to the correct position. McNabb returned with some water and shoved it into George's fingers. "Drink that. All of it," Hodge told him. "He's ill from the heat," he explained to McNabb, whose eyes lit up in understanding. "George, you need to sit upright and drink as much water as you can get into you. You're exhausted from being out in that miserable humidity and sun all morning."

"Didn't think you…could get ill from the heat," George said, gulping down the water McNabb had given him, and the redheaded constable went to fetch him another. "Never had that problem in Newfoundland."

"No, I imagine not." Hodge glanced into the Detective's office. "You ought to ask the Detective or the Inspector if you can get some rest. You need cool air and time to cool down."

George managed a smile. "You should've just left me," he joked. "Much longer and I'd have been on ice in the morgue. Doesn't get much cooler than that."

McNabb rolled his eyes. "He's fine," he told Hodge. "Just playin' it up for an excuse to go home early."

"Feel free to trade me off next time, McNabb," George told him. "I've dug more holes than the gravediggers it would seem."

"It'll never happen," McNabb teased him. "Hodge's too old, the Detective's too sharply dressed, and you're too good at it."

George sighed, accepting the liquid offering from McNabb. "Isn't that the truth," he muttered into the glass.


	20. Words Can Never Hurt Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> George goes off on "Constable First Class" Henry Higgins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AU Scene for 09x02, "Marked Twain"

"You know, they rejected me."

George feigned surprise. "What, the Empire Club?"

" _Yes_ ," Henry huffed. "Apparently, my thievery was noted." He looked out of the corner of his eye at George. "You didn't say anything, did you, George?"

George threw his hands in the air. "All right, that's enough!" he exploded. "No, _Constable First Class_ Henry Higgins, I did _not_ rat you out to the Empire Club over a bottle of mouthwash!" He took a step forward, until he was nearly on top of Henry's boots. "Although to be honest, you could use a swig of it, my _friend_. That mouth of yours has been dripping with nothing b-but arrogance and smugness since I got out of the Don Jail!" Henry tried to take a step backwards, nearly landing on top of Worsely, who sidestepped awkwardly out of the way. A crowd was forming, but George's attention was all on Henry.

"I am well _aware_ , Henry, that you have been promoted to Constable First Class. I do _not_ need the constant, ever-present reminder of the fact that you now hold my position and that you outrank me! Quite frankly, I don't understand how it happened! You couldn't find your arse with both hands and a map. I-I can only conclude that the Inspector and the Detective must have had a moment of-of temporary _insanity_."

That statement brought Inspector Brackenreid and Detective Murdoch from their meeting. Both men stood with their mouths agape as George continued his rant.

"Does the fact that we're friends mean _nothing_ to you?" George wondered aloud. "I sat by your bedside when I thought you were _dead_ after that explosion, praying to God that you would pull through, because I didn't think I could stand being in this station house without you, Henry. I took _great_ pleasure in interrogating Decker so I could serve justice for _you_! And what have I been given in return, in the last four years?" George shook his head. "Four years of cleaning up your mistakes. Four years of putting up with your-your conceit and your perceived self-importance and-and _mediocre_ detective skills! All so you could take this _farce_ of a promotion and-and shove it in my face!"

"Crabtree!" Brackenreid barked, at the same time Murdoch said " _George_ ," in a warning tone.

"He's been taking credit for my deductions this entire time!" George yelled over his shoulder. "I was the one who found the gun that was the attempted murder weapon in the bins outside the Empire Club. And I'm nearly done." George plucked Henry's newly-printed business card from his partner's breast pocket. "This friendship has been one-sided since the beginning and I take comfort in the fact," he murmured, turning the small, white card over in his hands, "that at some point in all this foolishness, your conceit and self-importance will be your undoing." He looked at Henry's slackjawed expression, and proceeded to rip his business card into several pieces. "Enjoy your promotion, Constable _First_ Class Henry Higgins."

* * *

George blinked. Henry was staring at him. He swallowed. "Of course not," he reassured his friend. Then, he smirked. "And Henry? All they would've had to do was take a whiff of you," he added, noting the smell of rosewater on his breath.

Henry rolled his eyes and walked away. George sighed. Some things, he decided, were better left unsaid. He knew, in his heart, that Henry was excited, and desperate to prove himself, and that it wasn't meant in malice.

 _Sticks and stones_ , George thought. _But words, however…._


End file.
